If the Fates Allow

She didn’t need people the way other people needed people, but she still needed . . . something.

We’re socially distanced over here,” her mom had called to tell her. “You put the leaf in the dining room table,” Reagan replied. “That’s not social distancing.

Now her head and mouth felt empty. She felt like she carried emptiness around with her, a six-foot radius of it.

If you could only spend Christmas with one person, no one in her family would pick her. (No one in the world would pick her.)

If you’re as careful as you’re supposed to be, you seem neurotic. I feel neurotic.

Your grandmother would want us to say grace,” he said, after they’d piled up their plates. “Hmm.” Reagan was noncommittal. She’d already taken a bite of turkey. “But if she wanted me to keep saying grace,” he went on, “she should have outlived me.

I can’t even imagine your grandmother wearing a mask,” Grandpa said.

No one called Reagan for comfort. No one called Reagan to offer any. No one ever said, “I’m lonely, could you come by?”—and no one ever came by. Even before this bullshit.

(She didn’t need people the way other people needed people, but she still needed . . . something.)